


That's MY cold

by Saxifactumterritum



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode Related, Episode: s01e10-e11 The Storm/The Eye, Kinda, M/M, Sickfic, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 12:51:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19006159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saxifactumterritum/pseuds/Saxifactumterritum
Summary: I wrote a fic. Mcshep, post The Eye/The Storm (Stargate Atlantis series one. John's got a cold, Rodney's annoyed, then there's snuggling





	That's MY cold

Rodney’s freaked out for a moment when he reaches his quarters and there’s someone in there. It takes him a beat to realise that the shower’s on and that it’s probably John before his heart beat returns to normal and the buzzing in his ears as panic shuts down his senses starts to ease off. It’s too close to the whole ‘kidnapped by Kolya’ thing for him to be calm about anything much. He waits for his vision to clear too and sits on the bed, listening carefully, charting the sounds in the bathroom to identify everything. 

 

It is John, Rodney recognises the nasal drawl as John curses after dropping something. There’s the white-noise of the shower, the clattering of John being a clutz, the splash of him shifting. There’s a sudden sneeze and Rodney jerks a little, hearing stretched to catch the small nuances. John mutters something then sneezes again, and again, and again. Rodney narrows his eyes when the cacophony is joined by rough coughing as the shower goes off, then more sneezes and John swearing again. Rodney goes to investigate, opening the door to a billow of steam. John looks up, a towel around his hips, a handful of tissues in one hand. His eyes are pink and he looks tired. 

 

“Hey,” he says, much more nasal than usual, before ducking and sneezing. And sneezing. And coughing. 

 

“What?” Rodney snaps. 

 

“It’s the stea..m’b,” John says, blowing his nose. “Sorry. You’re early?”

 

“We’re finished, we’ve done everything we can without physically examining the damaged areas of the city,” Rodney says, waving that away. “Why are you sneezing?”

 

John turns aside and sneezes as if to demonstrate, then starts coughing again, reaching for the sink to steady himself as the fit goes on a bit. Rodney frowns and huffs, waiting on his answer. John’s been off doing other things the past few days, it’s not like they’re married they don’t spend all their time in each other’s pockets. John’s actually been spending less time around Rodney since the Kolya thing. Rodney’s not sure what he did wrong, maybe just not being brave enough, whatever it was John’s been withdrawing and Rodney hasn’t been chasing him. 

 

“And why are you coughing?” Rodney snaps, annoyed all over again that John’s stopped dropping by in the evenings and has slept here only twice since Kolya tried to toss him in an ocean. 

 

“It’s just a cold,” John says, shrugging. 

 

“A cold? A cold! You have a cold??” Rodney says, aware that his voice is rising but he can’t really stop it. 

 

“Uh, yeah?” John says. “I got pretty wet in the storm and-”

 

“You think you got wet?” Rodney says, and, yeah, he’s too loud. You might even call it yelling. “I was the one in the rain for hours! Me and Elizabeth. We’re the ones who should have colds, not you! You were dry by the time I saw you, you can’t have even been that wet in the first place!”

 

John blinks at him, eyes scrunching up, then sneezes sharply. It takes him unawares and he tries to turn away quickly and his foot slips. Rodney reaches out automatically and grabs him. 

 

“Maybe we could continue this… argument? Out there?” John says, indicating Rodney’s bedroom. 

 

“I am not having sex with you!” Rodney… well, it’s kind of a screech, really. 

 

“I had the shower real hot,” John explains, patiently. “I’m sick. I’m kinda feeling light-headed, a bit of-”

 

“Whatever,” Rodney snaps, turning and stomping away. John trails after him with his pathetic handful of tissues, still in nothing but a towel. “Where are your clothes?”

 

“I was trying to tell you, they’re kinda muddy,” John says, indicating the bathroom with his thumb over his shoulder. Rodney goes to look. 

 

“Kind of?” he asks, giving the pile of mud a tentative nudge with his boot. “Jesus, did you swim in it?”

 

“Part of the settlement, the Athosians built it in the lee of a hill, and there was a mudslide. Halling said that they had, um, the thing you built. The receiving station? So they can communicate with Atlantis? That. It was under the mud, anyway, he said,” John says. “It wasn’t, as it turns out. But Alma only found us to tell us a bunch of stuff got washed down away a bit, after we’d gone wading through it.”

 

“The mud gave you a cold. Did you see Carson? Are you bringing alien viruses into my quarters?? Major, I-”

 

“I already had the cold, Rodney, would you shut up?” John says, sitting on the bed, deflating and rubbing his forehead before jerking forward to sneeze yet again. 

 

It gives way to harsh coughing and Rodney stares at John’s naked back, watching his ribs expand. He can see the nobs of John’s spine, his bony shoulders, the wings of his shoulder-blades. His skin looks thin, he looks fragile as he hacks away, hunched over, hand to his chest as if he’s been doing this a while. 

 

“Um,” Rodney says, feeling a bit awkward. 

 

Their ‘thing’ hasn’t been much, so far. They haven’t said anything much, they just got along quite well, and John seemed to genuinely like his company which was weird but nice. They ate together often and John kind of trailed him home sometimes after they worked together on earth (or rather after Rodney worked and John turned stuff on and did as he was told… mostly… and tried to annoy Rodney and his team to death). They watched movies together and hung out generally, and then it had seemed like a kind of ‘why not?’ situation. But, this. Rodney wants to reach out, to touch, to comfort. That’s a kind of intimacy they haven’t done much of. After John’s thing with the bug Rodney had had a similar urge but John had been quite closed off once he was released from the infirmary. He’d been content to watch movies with Rodney and fall asleep in his bed, but not to talk, and John’s never been much for touching. 

 

“Ugh. Sorry. It’s not alien plague,” John says. “It’s just a cold, I’ve felt a bit crappy since the storm.”

 

Since Kolya. Rodney wants to correct him. ‘Since Kolya, since I was tortured, since we saved the city, since I gave up our plan, since I was pathetic and useless. Since I proved to you I was unworthy of whatever this ‘thing’ is’. He doesn’t say any of that. 

 

“Yes, you said. Again, it wasn’t you out in the rain,” Rodney says, adding a huff for good measure and crossing his arms. John narrows his eyes. 

 

“Jesus, you’re annoying,” John says. “Look, do you have anything I can wear? I’m cold.”

 

“No,” Rodney says. 

 

“I didn’t get as wet as you, fine, I admit it. Are you happy now?” John asks, getting up off the bed. He sways. “Whoa.”

 

“Sit down,” Rodney snaps, going to find some pyjama pants, a t-shirt, something that won’t fall right back off John’s skinny frame. “You should eat more, you’re just bones. I still say it should be me who has a cold.”

 

“You’re welcome to it,” John says. He sounds incredibly congested and turns away to sneeze again, still with just his gross handful of tissues. 

 

“Don’t you have more of those?” Rodney says, lip curling up in disgust. He’s found some pyjamas with a draw-string and a t-shirt with the alien from ‘Alien’ on it that someone gave him. It never fit and he was too scared by the movie anyway. He’s not sure why he has it still, and he’s definitely not sure how it ended up in the Pegasus galaxy with him. Either way he’s not sure he wants to give up his clothes to Sheppard’s germs. “Maybe wash your hands?”

 

“Teyla gave me the tissues, mine were, um, muddy,” John says. 

 

Rodney goes to look for more tissues. He has a box, but he’s not sure he wants to give it up, these are extra soft and have aloe, he’s saving them in case his allergies act up. He hears John coughing again in the bedroom, an exhausted sound that goes on a bit then tapers off into a sigh and a murmur of ‘crap’. Rodney goes back and gives John the tissues and the clothing. 

 

“You were wet for all of five minutes,” Rodney complains, shoving the t-shirt over John’s head. 

 

“Oi!” John says, protesting Rodney wrestling him into the clothes, and his head pops out, hair a mess, cow-licks making him look spikier than even usual. “Give over, Rodney.”

 

“Do it yourself, then,” Rodney snaps. He wants to touch, but he backs off, sitting in his desk chair to watch John slowly get himself into pyjamas. 

 

“I wasn’t wet for long, I guess,” John says. “I dunno, I was tired and then we had to get everyone back and I oversaw that and it was a while before I got any sleep and… I haven’t… I can’t…”

 

John glowers at Rodney, standing with his arms crossed, bare foot. John’s not actually that skinny, or he is but not in a skinny way. He’s bony, narrow, but not usually so fragile looking. Rodney glowers right back, taking him in carefully. 

 

“Why do you look like that?” Rodney asks. 

 

“Are we having a fight?” John asks. “Is that why you’re insulting me? Is this a fight? What are we fighting about? Are you actually mad that I have a cold?”

 

“Yes I’m actually mad,” Rodney says. “Why do you look like that I mean. You don’t usually look so much like… you know, those tiny little bird that look like you might step on them and they’d crumble away.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” John seems to have reached the end of his patience. His attempt at shouting bends him double with coughing and Rodney gets up to steady him, holding his arm, trying to pull him upright. They land face to face, John leaning into Rodney, panting. He thunks his head against Rodney’s shoulder and doesn’t seem to care how much they’re touching. “I know you’re angry. I should’ve, I dunno. I wasn’t much good at following orders but I was, I am, very good in a tight spot.”

 

“I noticed,” Rodney says, letting his hand rest against John’s back. John’s hand flutters near Rodney’s shoulder, then drops as if not sure it’d be welcome there. Rodney pulls him closer, the uncertain shyness in John’s gestures hurting. 

 

“Pretty good at lateral thinking, I learn stuff pretty quick. Pretty good at flying,” only the last comes out with any kind of pride, the other two are just a recitation. Rodney snorts. “I’m a good strategist, I learnt French to fluency levels at school, I’m intelligent. I’m also small and fast and my endurance and stamina are pretty high.”

 

“Are we hugging?” Rodney asks, only half-listening to John reeling off what sounds like a resumé. “It’s nice.”

 

“I was pulled onto black ops pretty quick, Rodney,” John says, softly. “I shot my commanding officer without really hesitating because _that’s_ my training.”

 

“I know,” Rodney says, baffled. “I hacked your files, I know your record.”

 

“I get why you’re angry,” John says, not pulling away, still, from Rodney. It seems talking to his shoulder is easier. “Get that it’s not something people are gonna like about me.”

 

“What on earth are you jabbering about?” Rodney asks. 

 

“The… and then I… they’re genii, they’re people. I saw the way Elizabeth looked at me. And you… I forgot, tonight. I was so tired,” John says. “Sorry. I’ll go.”

 

John jerks away and starts out, into the hallways of Atlantis in nothing but a thin t-shirt, a pair of pants too big for him, and bare feet. Rodney shakes off his confusion and surprise and goes after him, catching him at the corner. 

 

“Major, you’re barely dressed,” Rodney points out, taking John’s elbow. John flinches. “Come back, lie down for a bit, then explain what the hell you’re on about. Come on, you’re sick and exhausted and cold.”

 

“I can… you don’t mind?” John asks. 

 

“No. Come on,” Rodney says, deciding the rest of this can wait. Somewhere between John leaning into him so trustingly and John not knowing where to put his hands, Rodney's anger and his own uncertainty has bled away. John nods and follows him back, muffling a couple of sneezes into his elbow. “Bless you, you sound dreadful.”

 

He guides John to the bed and John sinks into it, curling on his side. Rodney gives him the box of tissues again and putters around a bit, clearing up, listening to John’s rough breathing. When he glances John’s way, John’s watching him, a frown on his face. Rodney tells him to go to sleep and retreats to the bathroom, clearing up John’s muddy things. He wishes he could just burn them, but they haven’t got that many clothes and there’s no chance of anything new, so he sticks them in the bath and rinses them with the shower before filling the tub and leaving them to soak. When he goes back to the bedroom, John’s asleep. Rodney breathes out in relief and quiets his movements, changing out of his uniform and into sweat pants and a jumper. He puts a blanket over John then settles at the desk and opens his laptop, sets up his data-pad to stream the results of the city scans, and finds himself some snacks. 

 

He’s drawn out of his work by John’s increasingly loud breathing. Every breath ends with a soft moan. Rodney turns in time to see John, head back against the pillows, shifting restlessly, whimper. If he hadn’t been watching he’d not have been sure to describe it that way, but it’s definitely a whimper. John goes still, then curls in on himself, sitting up, arms around his stomach and chest, heaving for breath. He’s drenched in sweat. He’s making quiet sounds of distress, vocally trying to keep quiet. It sets him coughing and he moans, curling tighter.

 

“John?” Rodney says. John’s head snaps up and he looks at Rodney, eyes wild. “Uh, are you ok?”

 

John nods, trying to pull himself together. His breath’s still coming in short, sharp gasps, though, and he can’t seem to stop coughing. Rodney grabs his water bottle off the desk and goes to sit on the edge of the bed. He means to see if John needs a drink, maybe a call from Carson, but John misinterprets his sitting close (the bed’s small, everywhere’s ‘close’) and tips against him, hands fluttering before settling in his jumper, tangling, hanging on. 

 

“You’re alive,” John whispers, hoarse from the coughing. 

 

“Oh,” Rodney says, wrapping his arms around John’s trembling shoulders. “Yes, I am alive, and I’m fine. Did you have a nightmare?”

 

“Nothing new, it’s fine,” John says, sounding a little more like himself, clearing his throat. It might have worked if Rodney couldn’t feel his pulse racing wildly where he’s pressed close, couldn’t feel the fine trembling all through him, couldn’t tell his hands are twisting and untwisting in Rodney’s clothing. 

 

“You dream about me dying a lot?” Rodney says, half-joking. John stills momentarily then forces himself to relax and shrug. “Oh. Oh. You, nightmares, this, you haven’t been sleeping! That’s what you were trying to tell me! That’s why you’re sick. I was wetter, but I am a genius and know better than to not sleep after a traumatic ordeal.”

 

John must be really, really tired. He’s slumped against Rodney, his hands relaxing as Rodney talks. Rodney goes on, talking idly about how much smarter he is than Sheppard and how his genius defended him from getting the cold that’s rightfully his. John relaxes slowly, resting in Rodney’s arms, coughing now and then. He sneezes twice but he’s more congested than anything now, breathing through his mouth. Rodney hesitates a moment then gives in to the urge to rub over John’s back. 

 

“You’ve lost weight,” Rodney murmurs, stroking through John’s hair. 

 

“Yeah, happens whenever I’m sick,” John says. “Haven’t been hungry much.”

 

“It’s been a week,” Rodney says. 

 

“I’m not that much thinner,” John says, sounding more alive and less like he’s melting into goo. He doesn’t extract himself from Rodney’s arms, though, and his breath catches, setting him coughing again. “Ugh, crap.”

 

“Do you want some water?” Rodney finally asks. John nods and sits up, accepting the bottle. He looks awful, pale and sweaty and really, who looks that tired? “I think you should sleep.”

 

“Every time I fall asleep I…” John trails off and rubs a hand over his face before pushing both hands frustratedly through his hair and then turning away to sneeze four times. “Fuck!”

 

“Relax,” Rodney says, passing him the tissues box. “Also, gross. I meant I should give Carson a call. He’ll have something that’ll put you out for a few hours.”

 

“I always dream with sleeping pills,” John says. 

 

It’s funny. They spend so much time together and they’re comfortable, they’re comfortable hanging out, crashing each other’s quarters, falling asleep in the same place. But Rodney doesn’t know how to offer any substantial comfort here, and John is definitely incapable of coherently explaining anything. Rodey feels a strange mix of frustration and affection about John Sheppard most days, right now his heart beats each time like it’s beating against something, something that he’s sure would vanish if he could just… 

 

“I’m going to hug you,” Rodney announces. “I don’t really hug people, so.”

 

John laughs hoarsely, stifling some coughing, and Rodney hugs him. Wraps his arms around the stupid man and pulls him close like he’s done with Jeannie, before everything. He cradles John’s head and twists so he can lie down on his back, guiding John to lie with his head against Rodney’s chest. John shifts so he can press his ear to Rodney’s heart and lets out the longest sigh Rodney’s ever heard, going limp and pathetic. He’s too hot, he’s sweaty, and his congestion is truly disgusting. He coughs as he gets comfortable and he’s got to be more germs than human right now. None of that seems to matter so long as Rodney can hold onto him, can close his eyes and listen to John’s breathing as it eases a little as he drifts off.

 

it's hours and hours before he has another nightmare. When he does, Rodney just hushes him, holds him close, and assures him everything’s okay, and John drifts right off again. 


End file.
